


Deep Listening

by flute25



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU, Gen, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Rehabilitation, THANOS IS NOT HERE, but there are some references to him, jotunn loki (eventually), magical hand waving by the author, make loki happy again, music therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-04-14 09:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14133387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flute25/pseuds/flute25
Summary: Loki and Thor come to New York after triggering the destruction of Asgard. Loki is allowed to roam (relatively) free, under one condition.Or, Loki goes to music therapy to try and sort out some of his many issues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my first attempt at a Loki fic! Surprise! I have apparently become Marvel (Loki) trash over the past month and a half.
> 
> This was supposed to be short-short and somehow it's evolved into a multi-chapter endeavor, although I don't think it should exceed 4-5 chapters. (So I say now...hahahaha.) Mostly I just want to get something published and OUT THERE as this story concept has been simmering in the back of my brain for the better part of a month now.
> 
> What to expect - combination of character study, reflection on a real-life conference panel I attended, and a kind-of love letter to New York.
> 
> Post-Ragnorak, Thor and Loki (and Valkyrie. Eventually. Maybe.) are in NYC at Stark Tower while they figure out their next step. Thanos decides to go on vacation in the Bahamas or something, so he’s not around to ruin everyone’s lives quite yet (and on that note, oh god infinity war oh god my anxiety levels SAVE LOKI).

“I don’t like this, Point Break. I don’t like  _him._ “

An accusatory finger is thrown in his general direction, the action punctuated by the tinkling of ice against glass. Stark’s threat is nothing to him. The man brandishes only his drink as a weapon, the golden liquid splashing over the sides with his increasingly spastic movements.

“He has already agreed to the conditions, Man of Iron. Isn’t that right, brother?”

Loki crosses his arms and growls at Thor.

It will have to suffice as an agreement.

Undaunted by his brother’s recalcitrance, Thor forges ahead, every bit the king and now-peacemaker. “Loki was instrumental in the salvation of the Asgardian people. I know my brother has wronged you greatly in the past, but this is truly our most desperate hour.”

Stark stares at Thor for a beat, surprise flitting across his features. He quickly closes off any emotion, however, picking up his frenetic pacing where he had left off, glass still in hand. Nothing is said as the engineer alternates between pinching the bridge of his nose and taking large gulps of his drink.

“So let me get this straight. Your have - had - a secret, batshit-crazy sister who escaped her super-secret prison cell after Loki-Doki kidnapped your dad and put him into forced, permanent-as-in-dead retirement. She then murders half the population of Asgard, almost kills  _you_ , and for the rousing finale," Stark's voice is gaining register, jumping half-an-octave, "Reindeer Games over here ends the whole shebang by  _triggering the fucking apocalypse_.”

“It was the only - “

“I am  _not_  drunk enough for this shit!” Stark drains the rest of his scotch in one swallow, lilting to the side as he slams the glass on the counter.

“And so now you come to Earth!" A slightly hysterical laugh sounds from the engineer. "You drop off the hoi-polloi of Asgard with some ex-con rock aliens in the frigid asshole of Norway, and then you come here, of course - to New York, to  _my home_ , with  _him_  in tow asking for a place to stay - ”

“Are you quite done, Stark?” Loki interjects. It has been less than five minutes into this conversation and the god already has the urge to break his oaths and dismember the man on the spot.

Perhaps prison would have been the better option.

Then again, perhaps he will start by ripping out Stark's tongue.

“No! No, I’m  _not done!_ ”

“How surprising,” Loki mutters under his breath.

Rough hands grab him by the collar, and the god of mischief is slammed into a familiar floor-to-ceiling window. The panoramic view overlooks the towering skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan, the strange oasis that is Central Park, a veritable forest surrounded by concrete and metal desert.

Poetic, he thinks, as pain radiates down his spine.

_“You bastard,”_ Stark hisses, ignoring Thor’s protests. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t send you on a one-way flight onto Park Avenue.”

Loki’s nose tingles as the astringent fumes of alcohol waft from Stark’s mouth, now inches away from his own. In any other circumstance, he would be tempted to make a series of inappropriate remarks about the engineer's concept of personal space, but he has promised some modicum of diplomacy to his brother. 

It's not his fault Loki's version of diplomacy embraces a far wider definition than Thor's.

“Only if you plan on accompanying me, my dear Stark.”

Green flames dance in Loki's outstretched hand, the play of light and shadow casting an eerie glow on the feral grin unfurling on the god's features. 

The image is a half-truth - his grin will soon turn to a grimace if he is not careful. While thankfully his  _seidr_  has not been ripped away, even this small demonstration of power is tiring, and Loki quickly allows the illusion to dissipate, feeling his point has been made.

No, he does nothing to dispel the notion that he is at full strength, that he could merely twist his hand and send the Man of Iron careening in the direction of Grand Central Station. But Stark’s eyes widen in surprise for the second time that night. The movement is nearly imperceptible, but Loki knows in that moment his body has betrayed him. _Weak_ , he curses, heart pounding in his neck, cartoid artery visibly pulsing with effort.

The grip on his collar slackens.

He hates Stark even more now.

“Rehabilitation,” the engineer mutters, ignoring the god of mischief. Stark runs a hand through his hair - one, two, three times before collapsing into a nearby couch. “You disappear for how long and come back with  _this._  What the fuck are you going to do? Send him to group therapy? Genocidal Maniacs Anonymous? You can’t be serious, Thor!”

“I most assuredly am.” Thor responds, his voice imbued with new-found authority. Loki's gut twists uncomfortably at the reminder of the recent change in family dynamics.

_“Jesus Christ_ ,” Stark groans at his carpet.

Loki is almost insulted by the comparison.

 

* * *

 

Loki pulls a cloth from his pocket, wiping his hands clean of the New York underground with a scowl.

A truly barbaric form of transportation.

He leans on the precarious-looking railing of the elevated train station, careful to avoid coming in contact with the array of multi-colored splotches which run the gamut from animal feces to what he supposes passes for more informal mortal art. 

At one time, this would all have been his, his domain, his kingdom, his _realm._

The thought is rather sickening, in retrospect.

He has been wrong before - not often, but not unprecedented, either. A group of mortals flee across the zebra-striped pavement below when Loki realizes his mistake.

These mortals were not ants. 

Ants were organized. Ants had patterns.

Ants were quiet.

Sound pummels the god from every conceivable angle. Taxi horns bleat like overgrown goats, ragged shouting better served in an Asgardian mead hall travel up from the street level, assaulting his ears. A train on the opposite side of the platform shrieks to a halt, leaving enough time for the upper body of a blue-clad man to emerge from a minuscule window in a manner reminiscent of the old dwarves of Svartalfheim. He shouts angry gibberish at the passengers that not even the Allspeak can translate before slamming his compartment shut, leading the lumbering snake-like silver vehicle to its next destination. Loki once again rues the fact his magic needs so much time to replenish, that he has already spent his paltry reserves for the next few hours, so much so that he cannot muster a simple muting charm. 

Chaos is only fun when he is the one pulling the strings.

The Asgardian glances at his watch - time is strange on this planet, rushed, almost incoherent in its hurry. With a final sigh of resignation, Loki descends the stairs, his normally languid movements tense, even jerky. He shoves his way past a surge of humanity climbing past him like a rabid school of fish, ignoring the insults and epithets hurled at him as he disrupts the flow of bodily traffic. There is no respite once he reaches the street, as _another_ pack of mortals is clustered in an ill-defined line outside some form of brown and pink-lettered food establishment.

Whatever a donut is, Loki wants no part in it.

He swallows the wave of annoyance, taking a sharp right turn up a side street engulfed in the shadows of tall, glass-and-steel buildings. They remind him of Asgard, in their austere grandeur, and the pang of nostalgia is only slightly less painful than the pinpricks of regret. He pauses in front of one of the towers, taking in his own blurry reflection. Worried green eyes stare back at him.

Rehabilitation.

In the end, they had agreed to Thor’s demands.

Loki is uncertain how any of this is supposed to prove that he’s changed, that he is no longer a threat to Midgard or the fractured band of Avengers assembled in Tony Stark’s tower.

But the whys and hows don’t matter at this juncture.

This truly is his last chance.

Psychoanalysis had lasted all of three weeks. The therapists, as Midgard called their mind-healers, had all quit within a few days, slamming doors in their wake, crying in frustration, and on one momentous occasion, running out their office screaming.

To be fair, the man’s metaphor regarding snakes  _had_  been in rather bad taste.

Medication had been no help, as Loki’s unique physiology had either metabolized the pills instantly or outright rejected them, as evidenced by the night he had spent vomiting into Tony Stark’s toilet, another in an endlessly growing list of indignities he had suffered since Thor had exposed his disguise as Odin.

Hypnosis was out of the question, and Loki actually _had_ buried a dagger in Thor’s abdomen for even entertaining the notion out loud. Absolute inanity - the idea that mere mortals could stupefy the  _actual_  god of lies. In all the commotion, no one noticed the way Loki’s face had grown pale, how his hands had twitched at the suggestion of what was, at its core,  _mind-invasion._

Loki reaches into a pocket with those same hands, hands that would certainly never tremble in fear of _that_. He glances down at the address scribbled on the sheet of paper Banner had handed him. 

The doctor’s explanation had been, to use a crass Midgardian term, bullshit.

“Music can soothe the savage beast,” the demure scientist had commented, no hint of expected condescension in his voice. 

Perhaps their time together on the refugee ship had softened Banner's opinion of him.

That is something Loki will have to rectify later.

Now, however, he has little choice but to play along. His magic is weakened, there is no more Asgard to run back to, and to use the object would likely bring a series of unpleasant consequences he is not yet equipped to deal with.

Loki straightens his black leather jacket hastily, running a hand over his hair before pushing through the revolving door. He strides to the blonde-haired gatekeeper who sits behind a small desk, mobile device clutched in her pink-nailed hands.

“Can I help you?” She doesn’t raise her eyes from the phone, much to Loki’s annoyance.

“Ah, yes. I am looking for this office?”

He pushes Banner’s paper across the glass surface, hoping to grab the young woman’s attention.

A few  _bleeps_ and  _bloops_  sing from the phone, seeming to answer for her. Loki taps his fingers on the desk, leaning in towards the woman with narrowing eyes. With a final digital cascade, she peers into an agenda book, running her finger down a list of names.

“What’s your name?”

_What’syaname?_

Loki rolls his eyes.

“Laufeyson. Luca Laufeyson,” he grits, imagining all the possible ways he could use the mortal’s intestines as a noose.

“Fifteenth floor,” she responds, her attention drawn back to the phone.

Loki mutters something about  _imbecilic mortals_  and  _Tony Stark’s technology_  as he marches to the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to cut like...a good half page of Loki and Tony bitching at each other. They were getting out of control. That banter will probably make an appearance at later points. Plot elements are going to be revealed slowly so if you have questions, you will...probably get the answers. Maybe. I think. :o
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr! You may even figure out part of my motivation for writing this ;)
> 
> My main blog (Star Wars): @legobiwan || My Loki sideblog: @be-a-snake-stab-your-brother


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! A wild chapter appears!

Performance, he reminds himself.

Pretend to be interested, maintain the facade for a few weeks to appease Thor’s group of self-righteous friends (and the inevitable agents who were likely surveilling him).

He will utter all the correct words of contrition, nod along with whatever insipid platitudes these mortals have to offer. Loki has little idea what form this new attempt at rehabilitation will take, little insight beyond Banner’s curt explanation and a torn-off strip of paper in his hands.

Another useless exercise, pure theater. He doubts he will ever be truly considered “safe” or “sane” by anyone’s standards.

Including his own.

The elevator doors chime open. The waiting room is painted in a subtle lavender, most likely meant to calm the anxious and create the illusion of the cramped space being larger than its actual dimensions. Loki ducks under a low-hanging plant, a vine of some sort, scowling at the offending piece of decor. A portly male with long, brown hair is hunched over another one of those devices in the far corner, his face scrunched in concentration. Loki blinks. He sees Volstagg, replete in Asgardian armor, clutching at the tiny piece of Midgardian technology.

The comparison is absurd and Loki shakes the memory away.

Dead.

They are _all_ dead.

Dead by his hand.

By Hela’s hand.

The finer points of distinction don’t matter in the end.

Loki picks up the nearest item, needing something to do with his hands. He thumbs through a periodical named _Time_ , only to throw down the magazine in disgust when he encounters an article about Stark Industries, complete with full-page photo of Stark himself preening in front of one of his _machines_.

The mortals don’t stare at his outburst - they are not so brazen. They look past him, shifting in their seats, hands fiddling with their phones with renewed fervor. (Was every Midgardian permanently attached to these demonic devices?) They steal glances when they think he is not paying attention - curious, fearful in their discomfort. 

The familiarity burns. 

The adrenaline of survival, of escaping Ragnarok had not been enough. Days had dragged into weeks, jubilation and relief souring in the dark monotony of space, settling into a heavy despondency seeking an easy scapegoat.

Loki runs a hand over a nearby table. Splinters jut from its surface, pointed, like small, hungry stalagmites. They are thin and cold, almost reminiscent of -

He presses down, allowing the slivers to sink into his skin.

This is a mistake. He had told Thor coming back to Midgard would be disastrous. But his brother - the king - had simply shoved Loki’s anxieties to the side, bringing him not only back to Earth, but straight to the heart of those irritating mortals his brother had proclaimed as friends, as shield-brothers and sisters.

A far more vaunted title than “brother,” it seemed.

Loki had agreed, of course, had acquiesced against his better judgement, against the chorus of warning that sounded from his deepest intuition. Thor had never been on the wrong side of the Avengers, did not know what it meant to be a wanted man, a criminal. His brother’s dalliance with treason on Asgard was child’s play, any true consequence of his actions mitigated by Loki's usurpation of Odin.

He should have let Thor rot in the dungeons. Should have allowed his brother a taste, a mere hint of what Loki had endured. But he had done nothing, allowing Thor to return to Midgard without punishment, backing down in favor of his brother just like he had every other time for the past thousand years.

Magic flits at his fingertips - a muted crackle, the usual pinpricks of energy now dull and tarnished. Undaunted, the god moves to summon a spell. Perhaps he will blow out the windows of the waiting room in a spectacular percussion of destruction. He can already hear the deep chords of explosion, the grotesque tintinnabulation as glass shards rain on the streets below.

The familiar pressure builds inside of him, crescendoing almost beyond his ability to control. Anger tears at his skin, red shrieking in his ears. It swells, and Loki imagines himself as bloated as one of those large, festive Midgardian balloons, but he does not know how to stop, he just needs release and -

Pain tears through his midsection. His magic strains, the effort squeezing his internal organs, coagulating his blood, which labors through his veins.

A small groan escapes Loki’s lips. He hunches over, shuffling into the nearest chair with an undignified _thud_. He drops his head in his hands, willing the contents of his stomach to stay put, cursing his conceited folly as his brain smashes against his skull in a quick _marcato_.

An eternity later, his agony wanes, jagged waves of pain giving way to familiar purls of unease. He manages to sit upright as a series of chimes ring in pleasant dissonance on the other side of the waiting room. They remind Loki of the veranda adjacent to the palace library on Asgard. Such gentle sounds were rare in the royal halls, which had favored horns, drums, and other instruments of virility and valor.

The woman who beckons them inside is tall for the average Midgardian female, almost equal to Loki’s own stature. She wears a gentle smile as she ushers the stragglers into the adjacent room, brushing unnatural red hair away from thick-framed glasses.

“Take a seat wherever you feel comfortable.”

Loki immediately chooses a spot in the far corner. From this vantage he scans the room, identifying any possible exits, vulnerabilities - objects he could turn into weapons, if needed. Although he is confident he would emerge victorious if it came down to a physical altercation, he would prefer to avoid any such entanglement until his _seidr_ is restored.

He sinks further into shadow, hoping to be rendered invisible.

In truth, he feels anything _but_. He is being watched, for certain, and it isn’t that he fears Fury’s cell - that Loki can evade easily, even with his magic depleted. But he is tired, in no mood to reenact any part of his previous sojourn to New York. He wants to run, to flee. The impulse is familiar, almost easy, and the logic of it is all too solid. 

Midgard despises him. Only his brother's interference saved him from summary execution at their initial landing, and Loki knows the stay of hand will not last forever. 

Asgard will not tolerate a Jotun prince, not after he had made his beastly origins known to everyone as he hid in the safety of a heroic death and Odin's face. No matter how noble his actions, he is still the second prince, the trickster.

The monster.

And then there is Thor.

As king, his brother will be loved by Asgard (as if there were ever any question), will have the support of his mortals, will be the perfect son of Odin. 

And he would waste that goodwill, that political capital, all on _Loki_ until just like Odin, Thor's use of the trickster will eventually run dry. 

Better to leave while he can.

But there is nowhere to go. 

No Asgard to return to, no Bifrost to access the other realms, no dark magic of Odin’s to send him away.

His last resort is hiding, burning in an interdimensional pocket, far from the prying eyes of his brother, of the Avengers.

Anxiety claws up his throat. To call the idea poor judgement is beyond generous. He wishes to remain invisible.

He wishes to remain alive.

Loki shivers. No, no need to draw attention, risk alerting _him_ to its presence. It is inevitable he will sense it, perhaps has already, but at least if Loki keeps close to the others -

“Mr. Laufeyson?”

The god swallows over a large lump in his throat.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready to begin?”

No. He is not ready to begin again, to resign himself to a new existence here on Midgard, to take up the long-abandoned mantles of brother, of prince. 

The woman's blue-grey eyes linger over him for a half-second too long. He doesn't like their flash of curiosity, the recognition of something _broken_ , in need of repair. Loki fixes her with a wide, toothy smile, opening his arms wide in false welcome.

“Of course. Please start.”

"Great," she answers simply, tucking a few strands of loose hair behind her ear, pushing her glasses up her nose in an unconscious motion as she turns her attention to this motley collection of lost souls.

“Hello everyone. My name is Andrea Pelarski, and I will be leading you all through the next few weeks of sonic-based meditation and therapy. For those of you unfamiliar with what we are about to do, this is a series of exercises based on the work of artist and composer Sylvia Platstone.”

“Sonic meditation, despite its name, is not about listening to music. It is about listening to ourselves, each other, and the world around us. It is about sharing experiences and building community. In short, we are building trust by stripping away our constructed layers of how we perceive the world, coming to a new understanding of ourselves and others.”

Loki shifts in his seat, the battered leather of the couch objecting at the movement with a series of soft squeaks. Not one word, one syllable of this little speech holds any appeal. A dark-skinned woman in a fluorescent pink t-shirt exchanges a wary look with her neighbor. She, at least, seems to show some sense in the face of this impending nonsense. 

“Over the next few weeks, I am going to lead you through a series of meditations. We are not here to search for right answers, for anything that might be considered 'correct.' You have all come here to share in these moments of your own volition - “

Loki snorts, earning a few sharp glares from the room. 

“ - and I will not ask your reasons for coming. It is enough to participate. My only requirements are that you keep an open mind, stay in the room until the end of the session, and refrain from being disruptive.”

The god of mischief pulls at a few frayed threads on his pants. Part of him wishes he had done some cursory research as to what he would be subjecting himself to, although on the surface, it seems harmless, if rather dull. However, if the Avengers are willing to grant him some form of clemency by merely showing up to a few farcical meditation sessions and refraining from killing anybody...

...well, it's not like he has a choice. _Last chance_ , as Stark was so happy to remind him during their last encounter. And seeing as the alternatives at this point are less than desirable...

Loki folds his fingers together, schooling his features into a mask of perfect indifference.

“What is the difference between listening and hearing?” Andrea begins. “We hear sound every day, from the music in our phones to the clattering of the subway. But hearing is not listening.” She pauses, surveying the room. “Perhaps we listen to music, to Bach, to the Beatles - to Taylor Swift and Radiohead.”

Loki is familiar with Bach, only because he had chosen whatever music was the polar opposite of the horrific clamor Stark enjoyed _gyrating_ to at all hours in deafening volume. The music, named “classical,” had not been unsatisfactory, at least for Midgardian efforts, and it had the added benefit of causing Stark to run out of the room plugging his ears each time he played it.

“Perhaps we listen, perhaps we only hear. Today my challenge to each of you is to listen. Not to music, not to organized sound, but to the world around you and within you - external and internal. Did you notice the jagged harmonies of construction equipment around the corner? The hollow beats of your own elevated heartbeat as you descended from the train platform to this very room?” She cocks an eyebrow, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or perhaps you walked right past the aggressive cooing of a nearby group of ravenous pigeons?”

The room titters in amusement.

Loki chews on his lip. He does not understand the fascination this city has with what could charitably be called vermin with wings. He does not grasp why the dreadful clamor of those yellow mechanical behemoths would be the source of any kind of insight. And he has no idea why any mortal would experience an elevation in heartbeat from going _down_ a set of stairs (were they in such dire physical condition?) The sounds of Midgard are nothing more than unorganized noise, an irritant to the senses, the inverse of Asgard’s whispering forests, the eddies of spectral murmurs in the grand library, the dulcet tones of Fri -

The tang of blood leaves a sour, metallic taste in his mouth. Loki rolls his tongue inside his cheek, prodding at the new wound. He thinks he sees the woman give him a strange look, her nose crinkling in curiosity, perhaps in worry.

He focuses his gaze at a scuff on his shoe, as if it is the most fascinating pattern in the world - grey and white, hatches twirling on the dark surface. 

Dirty. 

Tainted.

“I now invite you all to find a comfortable seat. Close your eyes and breathe in your own time.”

The room falls silent save the shallow respirations of the others. Loki twists his fingers underneath his jacket, not bothering to close his eyes. All the mortals seem to be participating in the activity, even the pink-shirted woman to his left, their brows furrowed in comical folds, lips pursed like pouting bilgesnipe. He once again wishes he had a small bit of his magic, to send a burst of energy through the room, something to disrupt the overbearing earnestness of this whole charade.

“Let your eyes rest comfortably in their sockets. Try to be aware of the muscles behind the eyes, of the distance from these muscles to the back of the head."

Loki sighs. He already knows the rules of this type of meditation, has been practicing it for centuries.

"Become aware of sounds in the environment. When you think you have established contact with your external surroundings, gradually try to the sound out."

Breath is the foundation of _seidr_ practice. Awareness of one’s body the next logical step. 

"Now listen carefully to your own body working. What does your body sound like?” she asks the room, her own eyes shut in concentration. “At what pitch does your skin resonate? Your eyes? Your cells?”

All study of magic begins here.

“Listen. What do you hear?”

Loki inhales through his nose, pulling air deep into his navel, allowing his belly to expand. He holds this position, relishing the feeling of fullness, the small pricks of energy as his cells feast off the flood of oxygen. All at once, he exhales through constricted airways, deflating like a sorry Midgardian balloon. 

What is the sound of his body?

Heartbeat. Breath. The familiar, constant hum of _seidr_ nipping at his fingertips, yearning to be freed. His skin prickles, sharp edges whining against the warm air of the room.

Cells dilate and contract, pulsating in time with the invisible rhythm of the cosmos. His blood sings a crystalline melody beyond the capacity of mortal hearing, its pitches so far up the harmonic spectrum to be touching the stars themselves.

It is cold in that unfamiliar, familiar part of the universe. 

He swoops downwards on a rainbow glissando, his body buffeted by frosty gales.

Thoughts bluster against newly-formed mountains, monoliths rising from a pale and desolate world below him. He slams into the atmosphere, blue light screaming in his ears -

“Would anyone like to share their experience?”

Loki’s eyes shoot open. His knuckles are white, gripping the armrest with enough strength to rend the piece of furniture in two.

Trembling, he raises a hand in front of his face. 

Pale. 

White.

Nothing unusual.

The mortals mew about the pedantic, how it was a revelation to listen inwards, to scrape past the initial layer of static in the brain and actually become aware of the potential in their own bodies, of the constant tension and release of thought, how energy was not confined by skin alone.

His hands curl into fists. 

 

_ “Amma, I can’t feel it! How do you tell the air what to do?” _

_ Frigga caresses Loki’s dark hair, already growing long and unruly. _

_ “Mastery over the inside before the outside, Loki. You cannot tell the air what to do if you lack the vocabulary for yourself, my little mage.” She places a hand on his chest, smiling gently. “Only when you learn to listen to yourself and the world around you can you talk to the air, the ground - to the fire and the ice.” _

 

_Sentiment_ , he curses, ripping himself from the memory.

“Excellent, everyone.” The nasal tone bores into his mind, forming the foundation of a massive headache at the base of his skull. 

Loki pulls at his collar. The room is unbearably hot. Beads of sweat collect on his forehead, just as the flowers in Frigga's garden, glistening in the cool sunlight of that liminal space between dawn and day. 

"Mr. Laufeyson?"

Loki shakes his head, still distracted by fireweed and primrose, dark and black heat, blossoming into nothing, swallowing whole planets, whole civilizations...

His garden. Of fire and darkness.

(Would Thor have done it? If Loki had not arrived as the last resort, would his golden brother have summoned flame to the same end?)

The woman is staring at him. The woman is not staring at him. 

Loki smiles, easy and careless, at no one at all. 

"Everything is fine, Andrea. Thank you."

A few more exercises follow. They hum a single tone together, “passing” it around the room. (When his turn comes, Loki emits more of a growl than a note. The young man nearest him shifts away at the feral sound, eliciting the first hint of a smile Loki has shown all afternoon.) They meditate on a single word until it loses all meaning, stripped of all significance, phonemes melting into nothing, a mere static in the void.

He feels ill.

“For our last exercise, I would ask you all to please stand.” Wary glances are exchanged around the room, subtle groans of complaint not left entirely unspoken. Andrea maintains her bright smile ( _does she have any other emotion or is she a shallow automaton_ , Loki wonders), beaming at her reluctant stable of adults.

“For many of us, static meditation is difficult. We feel obligated to stay still, to not move, or else we will disrupt the process. But in doing so, we only get in our own way, tensing our muscles, preoccupying ourselves with what we _should_ be doing as opposed to the _how_ of what we are doing.”

There are a few nods of heads, a few murmurs of assent from the others.

“For this exercise, I would like you all to walk - walk as slowly as you can imagine.” Andrea pauses. “Walk so silently that your feet become ears. As you are doing so, I would like you all to think of the sound of your own voice. What is its fundamental pitch? Its range? Its quality? What was the original sound of your voice before you learned to sound the way you do now? What sound reminds you of home?"

Loki freezes.

"When you are ready, I would ask that you share this song.” 

“This is not a performance,” she continues. “You are not singing for each other, but for yourselves, together. Your individual melodies will build something larger than we are alone, isolated. I will join you, if you are feeling a bit skittish.”

No. Absolutely not.

Hel take the Avengers, the whole of Midgard, the entire universe, he will _not_.

Loki stands, caught between impulse and action. He watches with odd fascination as the others take tentative steps around the room. The amount of attention they now paid to what should have been an innate movement cause the mortals to overthink their instincts, and it would have been comical if not for the gnawing sensation in the god’s gut. A faint humming emerges from the corner, where Andrea had wandered. The solitary voice is soon joined by a few others, their melodies separate, but somehow coming together in an incongruent, but oddly beautiful harmony.

" _Idiocy_ ," he mutters, the word pointed on his lips.

Loki somehow avoids slamming the door as he rushes out of the room.

 

* * *

 

“Hey! Reindeer Games!”

Loki pushes past the irritant that is Tony Stark.

“How was recorder group?” Stark calls after him. “You play some nice songs? Get all your world-dictator aggression out?”

Loki grits his teeth. He is not going to engage, not _now_ , not when he might need -

“Or maybe they sang you some lullabies? Put you to sleep. A nice nap for our local monster of the week. You have lullabies up there in Asgard?”

_ Monster… _

His fist launches into Stark’s smug face.

“You know _nothing_ of what you speak, Stark!” Loki hisses.

The cold blaze subsides. Loki lets go of his agitator, not caring about the whispered swears, the hurried footsteps of the other Avengers, the tense order from his brother to stand down.

He glares at Thor.

No, he would not understand.

“This is pointless,” he mutters at no one in particular, sweeping out the room in one swift movement.

Loki doesn’t see Thor’s eye widen in worry, trailing his brother’s path until all that is left are the sounds of destruction echoing in the long corridor leading to Loki's room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is probably the point where I should say that this story is based partially on the work of composer Pauline Oliveros and her "Sonic Meditations" (1974). Oliveros was a composer, artist, accordionist, activist (in her own way) whose most famous works were pieces (exercises, meditations, etc.) meant for professional musicians, amateurs, and non-musicians alike. Basically, her idea was to focus our awareness on the inside and outside sound worlds, beyond ideas of "this is a tune" or :this is a symphony." In doing so, participants could identify sounds important to them (which _could_ be songs), share in meditation, and share in this experience as a method of community building. There are also elements of improvisation and enjoyment and incorporation of environmental sounds in performance that I won't get into here (way too much shop talk), but she is google-able enough if you want to learn more. Parts of this story are also influenced (more broadly) by John Cage. 
> 
> A few months ago, I was at a conference where one of the panels was an Oliveros session (Oliveros herself died about 2 years ago, but she has a large following). It was a fascinating session, but the one thing that stuck with me was the fact that when it came for the walking/personal song exercise I outlined in the story...I couldn't do it. I couldn't sing. 
> 
> (I am a trained performer - this should not be an issue. And yet, for this...I couldn't do it. A lady broke own crying in the middle of the session. We were told it's a pretty common occurrence.)
> 
> Why couldn't I sing? I have my speculations. Many of which will be explained through Loki. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Come say 'hi' on Tumblr! @legobiwan (Star Wars/Obi-wan Kenobi) || @be-a-snake-stab-your-brother (MCU/Loki)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves awkwardly*
> 
> heeelllllooooooooo, there
> 
> So this went through about 7,000 rewrites as my overall concept for this work (and my writing, and etc. etc. etc.) has shifted a bit between the last chapter (20,000 months ago) and this one. I'm really trying to balance the humor, angst, and "Loki takes Manhattan (and Queens) but this time without all the murder and alien army." And...yeah, I don't know. This is going to be a bit more freeform than I usually do but you know, experiments. Still likely to be about 5-6 chapters. I think.
> 
> I had to cut an entire scene with the Avengers because SOMEONE (Tony Stark) tried to barge in and take over ALL MY DIALOGUE AND SCENES!! If you're interested in the original concept, it's [ on my tumblr ](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/post/178086066864/be-a-snake-stab-your-brother-deep-listening)

The King of Asgard enters the room.

Court protocol dictates that he, a subject of the King, cease all activity and acknowledge the leader of his realm, giving a slight bow as is warranted by his station. He should wait to be addressed, gaze averted, hands at his side or clasped behind his back. He is expected to dutifully obey any command passed his way with efficiency and gratitude. This will serve as proof of his loyalty to the Realm Eternal and its ruler.

Loki, of course, does none of this. The back of his grey sweater (the least awful thing he could purloin from Stark’s wardrobe) should be message enough for Asgard’s new king. His attention is wholly invested in a strange off-white cube stationed on the counter, nestled between the refrigerator (which holds the ever-necessary ale) and the coffee machine (which dispenses the liquid the mortals consider as nectar). It is a prominent and important space in Anthony Stark’s kitchen.

Green eyes peer through the cross-hatched viewing port. The small glass disc inside the box makes another revolution, clattering when the rolling supports catch, nearly knocking the tray off its axis. The machine is well-used, and apparently well-loved, although not enough for someone to have taken the time to fix the abnormality, nor to clean the brown, greasy residue off its sides.

Loki gives a mental shrug. Perhaps the mortals find its defects charming.

The box is operated by a weathered touch panel situated on its outside surface. The technology is not all that dissimilar to what he has seen elsewhere in the Nine Realms, and Loki is forced to admit that for once, Midgard has exceeded his expectations. The mortals have more or less kept pace with the rest of the universe, at least in this minor detail.

The timepiece, however, nulls any fleeting esteem he may have held for their efforts.

The process of quick-heating a meal can be tedious (for it is never quick enough, despite its name). Somehow the Midgardians have exacerbated this unfortunate characteristic by counting down each second until the process termination in bright, flashing neon numbers.

Loki curses under his breath, lamenting his inability to summon the full strength of his  _seidr_.

He will have to wait for time to run out.

Thor shuffles behind him. Loki doesn’t need his eyes to know his brother has been wrestling with the urge to reach out an arm, to grab the trickster by the shoulder and command his attention. Loki ignores the King of Asgard, staring intently at the sickly yellow light of the heating box. The low, soft drone of the machine buzzes with spiritless electricity. It is an unpleasant sound, full of discordant tension, and the irrational sum of these tones pull him taut across the ragged peaks of their frequencies.

“You punched Stark.”

_Well-noticed, brother_ , he thinks acidly. Loki flexes his hand, the blue and black splotch near his knuckles not yet healed.

“He provoked me.”

Now it is Thor’s turn to sigh, deep and heavy. It is a familiar sound to Loki, the disappointment of the King of Asgard. Thor is becoming more and more like Odin with each passing day.

“You’re not helping yourself here, brother.”

Irritation sets pinpricks against Loki’s skin. His shoulders tighten in response to the machine’s irksome whine, to Thor’s gloomy warning, both of which bore into the soft space behind his eyes.

Two minutes left.

“I fail to see the issue.”

A hand lands on his shoulder and Loki quells the urge to pull his daggers from the hidden place in his shirt sleeves. The sensations threaten to overwhelm - his brother’s touch burning through his skin, the drone of the damned box practically jamming a needle in his ear, his own roiling emotions, which churn as the seas of Vanaheim during the last Great Storm.

“Loki,” Thor’s voice is soft. “This is an opportunity. For you, for me - to start again. I know not how Tony Stark provoked you, but if you keep angering the mortals…” Thor makes a frustrated grunt. “I want to protect you, brother.”

Irritation blossoms into white-hot anger.

“ _Protect me_?” Loki’s features distort in a familiar rage as he spins around, shoving Thor’s hand away.

Thor bangs a fist on the metal counter, the white box, coffee maker, and refrigerator all shuddering at the impact. “Protect you, help you - gods  _damned_ , Loki, why do you make this so difficult!”

“It seems the simple fact of my continued existence makes things difficult,” Loki sneers at the grey-tiled floor, not quite able to meet his brother’s concerned gaze. “I am merely expediting the inevitable conclusion of this most recent series of unfortunate events. Events which have led me to Anthony Stark’s kitchen, heating my pathetic excuse of a lunch with this damned  _box_!” He yells these last words at the microwave, which is unmoved by Loki’s outburst, numbers ticking down with clinical apathy.

One minute left.

Loki sags, the effort (and futility) of reaming out an inanimate object draining much of his vindictive energy. He steals a glance at Thor. His brother is clad in ragged denim pants and a faded mauve hooded shirt sporting holes in its seams. Hardly an outfit appropriate for the ruler of Asgard. (And yet, Thor maintains the same unmistakable, commanding bearing of Odin, who - even at the bitter end, stripped of crown and kingdom, was ever the King of Asgard.)

A wild flare of jealousy rises in Loki’s chest. Perhaps this is what happens when one loses an eye. It is a hypothesis Loki has no inclination to test.

“What did Stark say that angered you so?” Thor takes a timid step forward, sensing his brother’s exhaustion. He keeps his hands at his front, careful to not repeat the mistake of initiating physical contact when it is so obviously unwelcome.

Loki ignores the question, casting his gaze around the room. There is little to distract him in the bare white walls and gleaming, unused cookware. He has no desire to explain his irrational reaction to Stark’s words - word, really, but the white box seems to have slowed, seconds passing in painful lethargy. Somehow talking to Thor seems a better option than listening to the Hel-damned machine attempt to do anything with his food.

“Nothing really. It was merely another reminder that I do not belong among your shield-companions,” Loki near-whispers, surprising himself with the degree of candidness in his answer. “I cannot return to the Asgardian outpost without half of Midgard’s militia descending upon Norway. My  _seidr_  is still incomplete and I am forced to attend these nonsense meetings in hopes I somehow physically manifest a blood contract that guarantees my ‘good behavior’ for all eternity.” He snorts. “As if I have any idea what that is supposed to mean.”

Loki flits his eyes to the display - forty-five seconds.

“ _Starting_ again -there is no such thing.” He levels his brother with a condescending glare. “Not unless my mind is wiped utterly clean.” Loki bites the inside of his cheek. He certainly had come close enough to that after his fall through the Void, and still he had been unable to outrun the past.

“Even if we assumed such a thing was possible, the memories of my previous transgressions would not be forgotten by your compatriots, Hel, by most of this Realm.”

“And because of this, because we cannot start again, you must  _protect_  me _._ ” A cheerless laugh forces its way up Loki’s throat. There was no realm ( _no barren moon, no crevice)_  where he would be safe, no hope of starting again. Just borrowed time, ticking away in bright numbers on the side of an off-white Midgardian heating device. “I am as much a prisoner here as I was in Asgard’s dungeons. You have had your use of me - the remainder of Asgard’s populace is safe, our bloodthirsty sister defeated.”

Thirty seconds.

Loki sighs, bone-tired. “What more do you want, Thor?”

He hates that he asks, implores his brother for direction. Because Loki has no idea what he wants at this point. He is adrift, unmoored from everything that had been a constant in his life up until a few years ago. In truth, he would love to start anew, for his crimes to be forgotten, his identity buried once again, for the Tesseract to have burned with the rest of Asgard. He has died, twice (almost thrice) and not once has he been able to start again, not once has he been able to run from himself, not once has he ever found a place, a skin, a name to which he truly  _belonged._

Thor looks at him, unhappy, almost  _sad._ His shoulders hunch and a pang of regret hits Loki square in the gut.

“What more do I want, Loki?” He must have imagined the crack in Thor’s voice, the way his words wavered with uncertainty. “Perhaps I only want my brother, by my side, smiling - not haunted by the hundreds of terrible phantasms I see flitting across his features when he thinks no one is looking.”  


Thor fixes him with a soft, fervent expression.

“Perhaps all I want is to see him safe.”

Something stirs in Loki’s blood at the word  _safe_  - something irrational, boiling and dangerous.

“Then perhaps you should have thought twice before bringing me here,” Loki snarls, sweeping from the kitchen in a maelstrom of hurt and anger. The box beeps, loud and shrill in the distance, but Loki pays it no heed. He abandons his pathetic meal, knowing the forgotten food will turn hard and cold - just like him.

He staggers back to his chambers. 

The door to his room swings open, momentum sending it ricocheting off the chrome wall with an awful crash. Sweaty, desperate fingers close on an edge and he squeezes, slamming the door shut. Only then does Loki collapse, back sliding down closed entranceway. He buries his head in his hands, pulling at his hair.

_He will leave me._

Loki swallows a sob, sinking to the floor.

 

* * *

 

The New York City transportation system is maddening. Mortals cram themselves into every possible space - contorting, groping, smelling their way across the isle of Manhattan as they careen underneath the foul Eastern waterway. Their vehicle screeches to a halt in the district of the Queen, bags and bodies tumbling forward, unable to counteract the laws of physics, or common sense. 

The conveyance itself is a similar relic as before, all tarnished silver and dented metal, barely functional. (And yet how many millions ride this very car each day, he wonders, trusting that this battered projectile will maintain enough of its structural integrity to arrive at their destination in one piece.) If the clamor, dirt, and constant press of humanity isn’t enough to try his patience, today’s newest discovery of the wandering minstrels and troubadours (little more than court jesters) threatens what little restraint he has remaining.

Loki has quickly learned he is not a fan of “mariachi” music.

He manages to exact petty revenge on the interlopers. (Albeit not on the mariachi ensemble itself. That must come later, he will make sure of it.) Two stops after the departure of the so-called musicians, an assemblage of acrobats board his car, using the metal poles to flip, spin, and twirl to some form of unintelligible screeching masquerading as music.

Loki sticks out his foot, feigning a stretch. The young acrobat closest to him slips mid-rotation, bowling over his friend, who falls into the lap of a rather rotund gentleman holding a newspaper.

Chaos unfolds.

Loki hides his smile behind a book, basking in the angry shouts of the performers, the veiled threats of the man with the newspaper.

One doesn’t always need magic to be the God of Mischief.

 

* * *

 

The smell of rotting garbage and fried dough greets him as he descends the stairs to street level.Loki’s pulse races. There is a congregation of mortals outside the orange and pink vendor, laughing, slapping each other on the back. Just beyond them, a small gathering of pigeons pick at white crumbs in the gutter, either oblivious or uncaring of the danger that lurks with each passing yellow vehicle.

They do not coo, as Andrea had described.

Loki rubs at his ear, trying to dispel the faint ringing that has taken residence in his brain. It is nothing, he thinks. Only the consequence of having his senses assaulted by the constant screech of metal on metal, a worse sound than any beast he has encountered in his many travels. (But is it not similar to the wail of the Bifrost when it broke open?)

It difficult to breathe. (Of course it is, with the way the very molecules in the air seem to press upon him with dank, putrid odors emanating from the tall mountains of black, plastic sacks heaped on the sidewalk.)

Another mortal exits the store, white, greasy bag in hand, a brown ring shoved halfway in their mouth. The purveyor of strange pastries is not relegated to this street, he has learned. It is what the Midgardians call a “chain,” a large business with several hundred small outposts scattered throughout the realm.

The dwarves of Nidavellir would like this concept. Loki decides it is in everyone’s best interest to never share this information with them.

He still does not know what a donut is, or what purpose there is to a cake with a hole.

 

* * *

 

He stands outside the glass and steel building.

Loki twists his fingers together, taking two steps away, two steps back, again and again. It is a strange dance, one only he can hear the music to.

He is not certain why he has come back.

But what other choice does he have?

 

* * *

 

The beginning of the session is identical to the previous.

The mortals congregate once again in the wood-paneled room, taking the seats they had at their first gathering. They seem more at ease today, their faces more open, less skeptical. (Even the woman who wore the bright pink t-shirt last week - which she has today exchanged for an awful shade of lime - even she shows the hint of a smile.)

Andrea waltzes inside with her customary grace, greeting the room with a quiet smile. She has chosen to eschew her glasses today, allowing the contrast of red hair and dark blue eyes - an incongruous combination if there ever was one - to become more apparent. Her entire person beams optimism, each fluid body movement conveying the message that yes, something better is to come.  

“Close your eyes and listen," she instructs. "What does your body sound like?”

There is a connection forming between them, these lost souls gathered in this small office on a small parcel of land - an invisible thread braided in real time as they sit together in silence and listen. Loki has always been more sensitive than most to the frequencies of the atmosphere, of the music that dances in the dark spaces between the atoms of his own body, binding together, ripping asunder, but always vibrating with potential, with language that few could harness to their own ends.

Loki does not listen to his body. He does not want to be tethered to the others by these invisible bindings. He already knows what he is made of, already has in mind the answer he might give if he deigned to stoop that low.

Andrea asks about the nature of this sound, what she has named the sounds of their bodies (oh, but it is so much more than that. Within him, even within these mortals lies the very essence of Yggdrasil which connects them all to this reality).

Loki vows to say nothing, but after five minutes he has suffered through enough inane talk of heartbeats, songs, and pulses - the mere edifice of what they were listening for - that he finally utters a single word from the corner of the room.

“Magic.”

Andrea beams, as if this word alone would form the shackles which would harness him to the group. Loki scowls in return, leaning back in his chair. He carelessly extends his long limbs in every direction.

“Thank you, Luca, for sharing,” Andrea says, ignoring his obvious expression of contempt. She wears a black, long-sleeved turtleneck, adorned with with a red and gold scarf which cascades down her tall, long form. The scarf flutters in the air as the banners of Asgard’s royal palace as she pads across the floor, dimming the lights to a mere hint of illumination.

“We are going to continue with this exercise, but now I am going to ask you to contemplate the inverse. We have opened our ears to ourselves, learning what individual sounds make up our core, the very essence of who we are. With time, with practice - you will come to understand and accept the meaning of what you hear.”

Loki has studied  _seidr_  for a thousand years. He knows the meaning of what he hears.

“But we do not exist in a vacuum. Knowing yourself is only one half of the equation. Out essence interacts with the world around us, it is inevitable. And what surrounds us may support or impede what we know of ourselves. This is why I will be asking you today to listen outside of yourselves, to stretch your ears into the world around you.”

A bald-headed man speaks up. “But this room is silent. There’s nothing to listen to," he says, gesturing at the wide, pockmarked foam panels that adorn the walls and ceiling. 

Andrea grins. “This is New York, my friend - it’s never silent.” This elicits a few chuckles from the group. “But in all seriousness, you may think this room is quiet, that it holds nothing of interest, at least sonically." She quirks her head. "I happen think the artwork is pretty good to look at." Again, the room laughs, falling more at ease with the gentle quip. "Consider this, however. This room is alive. You, the furniture, even the building itself has energy, has the potential to communicate. There is no such thing as empty space or empty time. Silence is never truly silence. There is always something to listen for, if you pay enough attention.”

Dark shadow wraps its heavy tentacles around his shouldesr, his mind. They will drag Loki through the couch, through all fifteen floors of the building into the subway, through the primordial dirt underneath until he is submerged in the dark core of the planet.

There is no sound to listen for in the Void, no hidden energies that might relay their secret melodies.

“Close your eyes and extend your ears. Listen. Listen for the way the fabric of your clothing moves, for the small creaks in the wood, for the way the molecules dance through the air.”

There is nothing one can do with nothing. Empty space, empty time, the only company his own body, his own heartbeat, his own voice which had screamed itself raw until there was nothing.

“What is the sound of this room? What is the sound of this planet? The universe?”

Nothing, nothing, nothing. It is all swallowed by nothing until it folds back on itself. He is alone, so alone in his own universe of absence, his breaths the sound of the cosmos, his screams the sounds of the stars. But there were no stars, there was nothing, only himself, only those words embedded on his very soul.

_ He left me. _

Eternity passes in frozen terror.

“Slowly bring your awareness back. Back to this room, back to your body. Open your eyes when you are ready.”

Reality returns to Loki in stages, first in the dark-hued outlines of the wood paneling. Pale color bleeds into the violet curtains, white whispers into the flickering candles, dark woman’s shirt filling with lime. Finally his vision settles, the room now bright, over-focused, and Loki swears he can see the individual molecules of the furniture.

His breath catches and a coughing fit tumbles from his chest, the dark shadow of fear expelled with each violent spasm. He gives the mortals a wan smile, answering Andrea’s worried gaze with a small wave of his hand.

He is fine.

The mortals are more enthusiastic about sharing their experiences. If the act of observing their own bodies was a revelation, the practice of listening to the hidden melodies of the world at large is an epiphany. The mundane has transformed into the extraordinary, now that something as simple as a piece of furniture could play veritable symphonies if one listened closely enough.

Objects carry language - this is a basic rule of  _seidr_. 

But not all carry song.

 

_They tumble down the side of the hill, a tangle of limbs and laughter, finally coming to a crashing stop in an explosion of white powder. The boys land in a mess of tunics and furs, of long blonde and raven hair. Loki sits up, momentarily distracted by the stark winter landscape. Asgard has not seen a snowfall such as this in a century._

_It is beautiful._

_“Can you hear it, Thor?”_

_The blonde boy rights himself, cheeks flushed red, energy radiating off his already muscular body. Thor stills, contorting his face in an effort to identify what has distracted his thoughtful little brother._

_“Hear what, Loki? Are there enemies nearby to smite?” Thor would like that very much, to ride into glorious battle as his father, to take down those who would dare threaten Loki._

_The dark-haired boy quirks his head in annoyance._

_“No, you oaf. The ice.” His expression grows distant, almost dreamy. “It makes a song.”_

_Thor laughs, wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulders._

_“Loki, I think you are tricking me again.”_

 

He grabs the armrest of the couch. The wood groans in protest as Loki’s knuckles turn near-translucent.

Andrea glances at him, her expression scrunching. Loki avoids her gaze, taking sudden interest in the green-leafed plant that occupies the small table next to the couch. He reaches out to feel the leaves, to touch something natural in this city of cold concrete and hard metal.

The plant is a fake. Waxy, thick, and plastic.

He hadn’t known such things existed before coming to Midgard. On Asgard, plants were plants, their leaves verdant, their fruits succulent. The Golden Realm was truly golden, from its currency to its gilded frescoes to Hliðskjálf itself. Forgery of gold was an affront to their honor, punishable by a long prison sentence, sometimes even death.

After all, only those without integrity made fakes, made illusions, made tricks.

The plastic foliage of Midgard would have had no place in the Eternal Realm.

Andrea’s voice fades into his senses.

“…was the original sound of your voice before you learned to sound the way you do now?”

Loki regards the plant. Green, perhaps too green now that he is looking at it again, its stems too perfect, too thick. He doesn’t know. His voice, his famous words - they are as fake as the plant. He has never spoken in his - his other form, does not know what horrible, grotesque noises he would emit if he tried.

“What sound reminds you of home?”

How can he answer that question if he doesn’t know what home is?

Asgard obliterated by his own hand. His mother dead, his father dead. He has been systematically destroying anything and anyone he could call home, he is near the completion an awful self-fulfilling prophecy.

He has a brother. Loki fears he will destroy this, too, and so he tries to not think of Thor as  _home._  

And Midgard? It is a realm he can only claim as a prison.

There is no sound to remind him of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plastic foliage does not exist on Asgard. Probably no one gets allergies there, Golden Realm and all that. (I wonder if Loki, not being Asgardian, got allergies when no one else did. Ohhhhhh, that's kind of a sad headcanon.)
> 
> also, yes I know the "NYC transportation system" is un-venerable MTA but since I'm telling this from Loki's pov, the details are refracted a bit :)
> 
> there is a point to me harping on donuts, I swear
> 
> John Cage was a heavy influence in the "listening the outside world" section
> 
> I personally like mariachi music, but apparently Loki does not :D
> 
> Next update will happen I have no idea when. :P
> 
> Want to talk about my favorite Asgardian/Jotun badass mage and trade theories as to why LOKI WILL RETURN IN A4? (the sun will shine on us again, amen ave verum and all that) Come say 'hi' on Tumblr! [@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother (MCU/Loki) ](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/) || [@legobiwan (Star Wars/Obi-wan Kenobi) ](http://legobiwan.tumblr.com/)


End file.
